My So-Called Sex Life

The Happiest Place On Earth

I was on deadline yesterday. I had a ton of bills to pay, appointments to make, and a whole floor downstairs that desperately needed cleaning. I have an unfinished wall upstairs that needs painting. Apparently you're supposed to save the exact code from the lid of your paint can so touchups don't look like the walls came down with chicken pox. I had linens to buy since my son is currently sleeping on a quilt over a bare mattress. I've been deluding myself for a month that it's Pottery Barn's new design -- The Orphan Line -- but it's time to get with the program and buy some sheets. I also had some personal maintenance to attend to. As much as I love my bushy eyebrows, word on the street is that the unibrow is not quite back in style yet. With so much weighing down my to-do list, I did what every responsible mother and wife would do. I packed up the kids, said "screw it all to hell," and went to Disneyland.

I complain about a lot of things in my life, from an office that looks like the inside of a U-Haul storage system to my cottage cheese ceilings (and thighs). But living an hour from Disneyland is not one of my bitches. In fact, living so close to the "Happiest Place on Earth" has gotten me through many a wash, spin, and dry cycle. "So Stink just barfed over your new quilt. No biggie... next week you'll go to Disneyland!" Or "Who cares if Pip is having a particularly rough week of tantrums? Her incentive? Keep it together for a week and we get to go to Disneyland!" The year's pass that we bought for the four of us was one of our biggest, and most decadent purchases in years, but even my husband (king of the budget) will tell you it's the best $600 we've ever spent.

The irony of the four tickets is that Rex has not once gone with us. I either go with a girlfriend or my cousin. Yesterday I gave Rex's pass to my 76-year-old mother so she could enjoy the grandkids there every other month for free. I'm so glad I did. This morning, despite running late for preschool and having overdue library cards, I couldn't stop smiling at the picture of her, white hair gleaming, humongo sunglasses covering her Irish smile lines, attempting to kick my son's butt at Buzz Lightyear. (Stink won, just for the record.)

What makes Rex so happy about Disneyland is that I'm content for days when I get back. I am less apt to nag my little homebody about getting out of the house or complain about the whining children. Disneyland, for me, is like a shot of happiness heroin. And because it's, as my kids say, "a magic ticket," the faux drug high does not come crashing down a few days later. There's always the next visit to look forward to.

I admit it - I'm a carnival whore. I love the stimulation. No matter how much Rex tries to fill the endless pit of need that is my desire for entertainment, he can't compare to the cotton candy, parades, light shows, decorations, music, thrill rides, dancing, gleaming restaurants and token-filled shops that fill Disneyland. It's like an orgasm for my brain that just goes on. And on. And on.

It makes me so jubilant that when I come home, I'm spent from the thrill-seeking. Being exhausted means I'm relaxed. And when I'm at peace, it kicks other areas of my body into full swing, making me more in the mood to do other decadent things. And that, for Rex, means that our bedroom trumps Disneyland, making it the official Happiest Place on Earth.

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